


In Honor of NaNoWriMo

by Catminty



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Freeform, Multi, NaNoWriMo, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catminty/pseuds/Catminty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unedited, unfinished, and largely unrelated works for NaNoWriMo. Critique and suggestions are welcome, as are prompts, pairings, and ideas for continuing a given segment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grimlock/Fulcrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 1st - Untitled series
> 
> I'm late! Ack! Oh well. This snippet is an examination on the W.A.P.'s crew and their quirkiness. It's not as characterized as I'd like. 
> 
> Remember! WIPs! Very little if any editing has been done. /word means it should be italicizes.

After days of close-if-unwanted interactions with each other, Fulcrum began to contemplate whether or not Grimlock was as processor-fried as they had initially anticipated. 

The speech impediment was a proven malfunction caused by the circuit speeders that mingled with the Dinobot's stasis locked systems for who knew how long before the Scavengers stumbled across his prison. Medical files Crankcase had skimmed over in the past said the effect was supposed to be temporary. It was why no one could understand Krok's dazed mumbling most of the time by the second month of his blitzed rehabilitation. Granted, the officer's face was nearly self-repaired in less than a quarter the time it regularly took to heal. 

Spinister tried his best to explain the process in broken medical jargon. Either everyone was too undereducated to understand the logistics or Spinister was too distracted by everything to explain it. He'd often stop mid-sentence to pick up where he left off on a random pet project, completely oblivious of the conversation he'd just been holding. Perhaps his thesis was best kept to a journal of medical mysteries. Either way, the process worked even if it left the fried mech mostly incapacitated.  

But when push came to shove--or when life-support went kaput spontaneously and the frigid chill of dead space threatened to send them all to stasis if the machinery wasn't repaired--Krok calmly gave out orders and commanded the panicked crew through the disaster. He was surprisingly understandable in the moment. So surprising in fact that Fulcrum could almost ignore the fact that the orders were administered while the commander was trying to brandish a shovel at an imaginary...monster of some sort. A monster that had apparently laid claim on Krok's favorite seat, much to his trippy dismay. 

It would have been entirely entertaining watching the shenanigans if it weren't for the whole impending-death part of not fixing the life-support system. You know, the part that supported life and all. Everyone going into stasis meant that no one would be flying the W.A.P., meaning it would probably autopilot itself straight into the nearest black hole. The autopilot had been dead long before the Scavengers got ahold of the dilapidated ship, but it would find a way--somehow, someway--to pull that stunt off. 

So, yeah. The Scavengers had Krok swinging a shovel wildly in the air while explaining in a level tone exactly how to cure his temperamental ship's newest ailment. Out of context? That was comedy gold.

Anyway, circuit speeders. Wow. The slag caused equal amounts of good and bad over time. Grimlock was able to jump out of stasis and immediately lay the smackdown on Tarn when it was needed, but he suffered persistent, minor motor problems here and there as a result. Every once in a while Grimlock would jerk mid-gait and plow into something. It was funny the first few times, after they got over the scare of having a giant Autobot flail randomly into solid (or now-smushed) objects. Grimlock's strange stunts acted as a comic relief in the Scavenger's stressful lives of trying to make it one more day. 

Then, they realized that Grimlock couldn't control the random jerking that grew more persistent with each passing day: he was glitching. 

It was unnaturally quiet on the W.A.P. as Fulcrum shifted his footing nervously outside one of the berthrooms, bereft of his usual company. The others were concerned. Rightfully so. Usually when Grimlock suffered a glitch, he shook it off and continued with what he was doing. Last time, however, the Dinobot hesitated as he pushed himself back to his feet. Misfire tried to make light of the situation by making some sort of joke about falling and having a nice trip, but even he couldn't shake the chilly atmosphere that settled over them. Without a word, Grimlock lumbered off at a sedate pace to his recharging area. 

Should Fulcrum be concerned? Ehh. He didn't exactly want to get caught between a Grimlock and a hard place. There was no need for Flattened Fulcrum should the Autobot go flailing into another fit. There was something nice about having all of his limbs; he really didn't want to part with one or two any time soon. 

The slight creak of Fulcrum's fidgeting quieted as he stilled. A frown tugged his lips as a strange sort of guilt ate at his processor. There really was something wrong if the glitch kept popping up. Sighing, he ran a hand down his face and did his best to slow down his overactive processor, then he quietly padded inside the dark room.

It was hard to tell what was what in the crowded berthroom at first. Grimlock had a tendency to collect random objects, so it was a bit of a struggle telling apart Dinobot tail from large tubing sometimes. The K-Con carefully picked his way through the clutter until he found something unexpected. Nestled in his treasures, Grimlock had his beastly snout rooted beneath a pile of junk. He huffed mightily at Fulcrum's approach and burrowed his helm further under the pile. 

Fulcrum turned his head away to hide a small smile. The big lug was /sulking because he got /embarrassed. It was sort of--almost--cute, though the K-Con would never voice such affection aloud. 

Looking around, Fulcrum spotted a suitable spot and knelt down at Grimlock's side. "It's alright," he said, gingerly patting the Dinobot's large hindquarters. "I'm not a medic, but I might be able to help fix the error in your coding. If-If you want anyway."

While he had no certifications or experience in core coding, he did have rudimentary self-maintenance experience with more than one type of design. The K-Con reformatting changed more than just his plating. Integral coding that formed Essence de Fulcrum remained largely intact, but almost everything else got turned on its side or changed into a completely different protocol all together. Fulcrum still had trouble curling his pinkies independent of the rest of his hand after the change. 

But yeah. Coding. Technicians work with the stuff every day. Being a techie certainly helped even if machine coding and core coding were different in more ways than he could count. Fulcrum knew the similarities between basic formats enough and how to troubleshoot to find the redundancy error that kept haunting Grimlock. Or so he hoped when big optics peeked up between gaps in the junk the helm was buried in. There wasn't much that could go wrong, right?


	2. Soundwave's "Hatchlings"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 2nd - Dragonformers AU
> 
> Soundwave is either just reaching a breeding age or he keeps losing his clutches. I haven't decided. Either way, he has a tendency to get in a fit where he steals the smaller dragons (cassettes and minibots) and takes care of them like a mommy. I had the intentions of including baby!tailgate being rescued by angry-adoptive-father!cyclonus.

It was a sunny, peaceful day in the quiet little valley. Small ripples danced across the surface of a quiet pond, the flighty creatures beneath darting this way and that to avoid the mostly harmless maw gently lapping at the water. Chortling, the orange and yellow dragon as he raised his head to survey the surroundings. The others were back at the dens lazing the day away in the warmth of the sun. The small, slate and white dragon basking on a broad rock seemed to have the same idea. It was safe in their little valley. Mountains surrounded every side to ward off possible dangers before the sanctuary could even be discovered by stronger predators. The outside world was dangerous. Chromedome and Rewind had traveled much in their lives; the pair had more than their own share of adventures. 

Shivering in remembrance, Chromedome allowed the shake to overtake his body. Water droplets flicked from his muzzle and pitter-pattered across the water's surface, once more scaring away the panicky aquatic life. Their darting drew his subdued gaze toward the tree line and a dark shadow that crept between the sparse foliage.  Huffing in amusement for what was to come, Chromedome trotted over to his small, stubby companion and laid out on the rock with him. Or, at least, he laid /around Rewind's body in a crescent. Rewind liked to sprawl in his sleep. Being that he was so preoccupied as with sun bathing, Chromedome did not see the lean purple and black dragon stalk out of the timberline. Neither did he nudge the smaller dragon awake as a curtesy.   

Soundwave, the purple-eyed dragon may have been slightly smaller, but he was eerily silent as he stalked up to the dozing pair. He stilled at Chromedome's hindquarters to avoid the white-tipped tail swishing back and forth in amusement. The movement slowly tapered down to the occasional twitch while the purple dragon held completely still. Eyes narrowed, Soundwave waited a moment longer then bound silently bounding over Chromedome's mass, wings flaring slightly to lessen the sound of impact when his claws met stone. Preening at his own prowess, Soundwave swooped down, maw open, and delicately gripped the resistant scruff at the back of Rewind's neck with his sharp teeth. Prize obtained, the thin dragon happily trotted away carrying a dazed Rewind. 

Chromedome kept a groggy eye on the pair during the less-than-tactful escape. It was that season, after all. Rewind's scales puffed out in irritation even when instincts had his tail curling up toward his belly and his wings pressing closer to his back to ease the resistance put upon Soundwave's grip. They'd gone through this routine enough times to know the midnight dragon meant no harm. It didn't make it any less amusing for Chromedome. 

The others would all be awake and grumbling about this soon. But not yet. Stretching across the empty rock, the orange and yellow dragon took up the space previously occupied by the kidnappee. His head hung off the edge, upside-down view of the unsuspecting fish. He flicked his tongue against the surface, watching as the simple-minded creatures ran for cover. 

Rewind would be fine.  


	3. Prowl/Jazz/Soundwave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 3rd - BDSM
> 
> Random smut written in the context of learning how to explain a scene in greater detail.

Chains rattled in a chime of forcefully restrained euphoria. The hands wrapped tightly around the tempered lengths creaked in protest of their owner's spasming hold. Thin, refined fingers trailed down the restrained mech's frame in a drawn out test of wills, a dance of desire on a razor's edge. This mech was not weak, physically or mentally, though the number of times they had been outwitted was belied by the tremble that had overtaken the mech encased by their heated frames. He resisted to the end every time no matter how they took him or left him wanting, shaking with pleasure. There was something utterly intoxicating about controlling a mech in such a way. 

Royal blue optics lidded in silent appreciation of the heated frame poised in Prowl's lap. The blue and silver mech undulated, trying and failing to shift so that a light touch would avoid a rough gash near his hip seam--a fresh wound rendered from battle just a short while ago. Prowl's grip tightened to force their victim still, and the mech tensed in pain when black fingers worried a tattered edge. Dark delight skittered across the blue visor hungrily taking in each resistant shiver. A devious smirk just below the soft glowing strip spoke volumes of just what else he had in store. Jazz enjoyed giving pain, especially when their victim tried to avoid it.

Soundwave was a master of control in most regards. He did not physically or verbally react unless absolutely necessary. It made for snooze worthy interfacing even though it was a quick-and-dirty bang with the enemy, a normally excitable situation when both parties enjoyed toeing the line between faction ties and unadulterated lust. 

The pair grew to want more out of their little exchanges with the pleasurable but largely unresponsive Decepticon. He never once spoke against their methods and readily allowed Prowl and Jazz to bang him hard and fast or soft and slow. They slowly learned through trial and error that Soundwave would allow them to go further with their interface kinks the more they met. Small, unnamed boundaries were tentatively crossed--some by mistake, others with intent. A rough bite to the neck would send Soundwave's helm lolling back. Restraint made the near-silent mech quiver on the edge of losing his stony facade. Sharp orders hissed in his audio made him pant behind his unmoving mask. Pain, as Jazz had joyously discovered, made Soundwave come undone when administered correctly. 

A mech had his limits. Any mech can come undone with enough stimulation. When Prowl and Jazz finally managed to rip a true, overwhelmed moan from the stoic communications officer, they became possessed with achieving the same goal again and again. 

Prowl was certain they could attain their goal in under four Earth hours this time. Three of which were already notched into their proverbial belt. The Praxian's grip loosened and he nuzzled his face into taut neck cables that flexed and released with each flick of Jazz's finger along the open wound. 

But Prowl was determined. And Jazz played dirty. 


	4. Sir Tailgate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I saw this lovely picture of MagicalGirl!Tailgate on tumboner. Sir Tailgate spawned from that. 
> 
> Trudge is a nobody garbage truck OC of mine 'u'

Along the subdued streets of a quiet city, a large truckformer pulled to a halt near a designated curb. Small piles of waste and refuse were poised on the corner of each housing structure in preparation for the weekly pickup. While most mechs were at normal, everyday jobs unbeknownst to the danger at their doorsteps, a brave "knight" and his reluctant-if-acquiesce "steed" worked diligently to keep their homestead safe. The "squires that need not be mentioned" they worked with glumly made their way to the ground and grudgingly went to work.

But one in particular--the self-designated knight--was different, at least on the inside. A white and aqua waste disposal unit peered his head around the aft of the truckformer with enthusiasm. He was barely larger than the items left to be disposed of, but neither that nor his dwarfed size compared to his partner deterred the small mech's dramatic rendition of his duties. A twinkle lit his visor at the sight of the exceptionally large stack of garbage that waited patiently on the corner they pulled up to.

Trudge let his hydraulics hiss in an amused sigh at his friend's antics. He'd seen enough datafiles to know what was going on in that processor.

_Egad! What foul beasts dare taint the sacred kingdom, burdening its glorious inhabitants? Sir Tailgate leapt from his mighty steed, bounding over the great fissures that tangled across his path to righteousness with ease._

Small white feet toed across the worn road, careful as to not step on a single crack. The display looked like some form of dance with his head down and his feet in constant motion. One large crack in particular cut a parallel path with the sidewalk. Tailgate leapt over it, caught the pole of a street lamp, and swung around it once in triumph. Trudge knew that he would never have the spark to damper the waste disposal unit's enthusiasm even if he wanted to. Even the handful of mechs passing by couldn't help but smile.

_There! Beyond the infestation, defenseless peasants were endangered by the scourge plague. It was this knight's sworn duty to protect the innocents._

Tailgate rushed forward to throw his frame between the foolish peasants and the imaginary danger. With stubby arms stretched wide, he made a show of standing strong while protecting the bewildered pedestrians from the ruffian rubbish.

_He did not fight with swore nor shield; the mighty Tailgate need not more than his own two hands to slay even the most dastardly of demons. For a true knight doth rely only on his own strength._

Trudge chuckled as he watched Tailgate snatch up the bags and drag them over to his open compactor. The first few sacks of garbage were easily relocated. They barely registered any weight at all on the truckformers scales. But the further down he went, the harder Tailgate had to tug to move the trash.

It was the last bag, a monstrosity by its own right, that stopped the waste disposal unit in his tracks. The first few tugs didn't even make it budge. Trudge had to stop himself from crooning at his friend when Tailgate lost his grip and fell down. Dusting off a scrapped knee, the little knight stubbornly wiped the tears from his visor and went back to tugging on the bag. 

_Scourge of the underworld! This day shall be your last! Wielding his mighty power, Sir Tailgate seized the foul beast right forth!_

Well, "seized" wouldn't be the technical term. "Mounted" would be more along the proper lines. The squires pooled their strength and lifted the mass--Tailgate riding atop--and carried over to Trudge's aft.

_Success! The fiend was as light as a feather compared to the righteous knight's strength. Let that be a lesson to all evildoers hencefor--_

"Sir" Tailgate squeaked as his teammates dumped him in with the rest of the garbage in Trudge's open (but thankfully offline) compactor. Apparently, they could only stand so much theatrics in one day.


	5. Cyclonus/Tailgate + unwanted Whirl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl is so crazy. I need more practice with him.

It had been such a nice evening. 

Cyclonus was in one of his rare giving moods where he'd huff irritably but inevitably go along with whatever Tailgate asked for. The little white and aqua mech tried his best to not abuse his opportunity, but... He wanted to go out, to have some fun. Recovering was a long and boring process filled with hours of staring at a ceiling and moving around as little as possible because Cyclonus _hated_ fidgeting. 

So, in light of the rare mood, Tailgate managed to work up the nerve and ask if they could go on a walk together. The surly mech immediately shot down the idea. "You're too weak," he said, but he was kind enough to compromise. Cyclonus actually carried Tailgate on his shoulders--in the hallways; in front of other mechs--and he didn't even get angry at how much it flustered the recovering minibot.

The only time Cyclonus got mad was when Whirl plucked Tailgate off his shoulders and sped away. There might have been a strip of fire down the path of rage that tore after him. Maybe. 

"Eep!" Tailgate flailed helplessly in the larger mech's pincers as he was snatched up. 

"So, I was thinking," Whirl commented casually as he flung Tailgate into the air. "You said you wanted to do more things together with Cyclonus, right?" he asked all too eagerly, keeping stride as he dashed away from the scene of the crime. Whirl's peculiar hands linked around Tailgate's ankles after he settled his hostage on his shoulders. "You could race. Racing together is doing something together." A shout of enraged indignation echoed from behind. "But you're still all weak from the **thing**. So I'll be your legs."

"No!" Tailgate scrambled to hold onto the crazed mech's helm for foundation. "I mean," he squeaked as they rounded a corner so fast that the helicopter's peds skid. "Whirl! I-I don't think--" 

"Besides," Whirl continued. Claws skreeped against his rotors as Cyclonus locked a hand around the flailing appendages. He didn't even _flinch_. "Its way too much fun pissing Cydorkus off."

The purple mech dug in his heels and yanked backwards to stop the crazy copter. Visor bright in horror, Tailgate watched as the rotors popped free as if they had broken off. Whirl cackled gleefully and sped onward, leaving Cyclonus stumbling to try to catch up once more. 

"Whirl!" Tailgate eeped. "Y-Your--"

"That tickled," Whirl said with a crazed laugh.

It had been such a nice evening. 


	6. Cyclonus/Tailgate + mentions of Whirl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea. I blame Gokuma for making me love Whirl.

It had been difficult finding a time when Whirl was on duty when they both were not, as was hacking into the helicopter's room. While the initial plan of laying a trap in Whirl's room was something they both looked forward to, Cyclonus and Tailgate froze at the entrance of the room with the sight that greeted them. 

Their optics and visor glowed bright in the darkened room highlighted with multicolored biolights shining amidst massive gears, springs, and cogs mounted on the walls. Biolights--biomechanisms taken from once-living Cybertronians--sparkled against faceted, artfully carved slabs of metal that seemed to cradle the lighting features as well as the Cybertronium plating they were created with. It was as though numerous mechs' plating had been ripped off and reshaped into something else entirely.   

Hypnotized, Tailgate stepped forward with a raised hand. His fingers grazed the surface of a gear half his height with small groves that ran collectively down one of the gear's teeth. It was as though a small, sharp point had dug out the unwanted metal and shaped the massive slab to the artist's desired shape. The metal had not been cut, it had been whittled away deliberately. 

The gear turned with a jolt. It's movement set in motion half of the wall's other gears and widgets. Clinks and clatters of moving metal chimed in an odd staccato. It was so strange that it was unnerving. 

"It's a chronometer," Cyclonus whispered breathlessly, reverently. Pieces amounted to nothing more when separate. But combined they formed a network of continuity and meaning. Somehow Whirl had been able to create enlarged replicas of the mechanisms of a mech's inner workings. It was both terrifying and beautiful at the same time. 

"Wow," Tailgate said while carefully touching one of the pieces that stopped moving. The cog had an engraving of a collection of jovial mechs on it. Biolights of varying colors accented each mech's optics, incorporating blues with reds and yellows with purples. 

So enraptured with their discovery, Cyclonus and Tailgate forgot about setting the trap for their once-enemy. They slipped away before Whirl's scheduled return. That night, lying together in their berth, they whispered softly to one another about Whirl, what he was, and what he might still be. 


	7. Baby Starscream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby fluff because I had a crappy day todayyyy.
> 
> Something happened. Starscream was turned into a sparkling.
> 
> Edit: Woah there, autocorrect. Way to turn "Earth-sparked" into "Earth-soaked." Stop being weird.

Starscream was a fussy little bitlet. Whenever he was held, he'd wriggle with irritated huffs and squirm with frustrated whines. But if the mech holding him dare set him on the ground, Starscream would throw a true fit. The ex-Decepticon commander would plop down on his rump and wail like he'd been abandoned. 

The Autobots couldn't make sense of it. Ratchet fruitlessly scanned the seekers systems relentlessly for any possible bugs or glitches. Jazz ineffectively tried to distract Starscream with games and music. Prowl even put forth an effort by attempting to glare the twitchy-winged pest. 

Surprisingly, it was the young medic First Aid that managed to find the solution. 

The Autobots exited the Ark en mass to gawk at First Aid while he cooed at Starscream, who was gibbling contentedly even as he was being buried alive. Who, besides an Earth-sparked bot, would think to let a sparkling wobble around in snow? Apparently young seekers needed flight-like stimulation from a young age. The snow piles on Starscream's wings were light enough to seem nonexistent but cold enough to feel like high altitude air. It was so simple that it was brilliant. 

Smiling at the happy sparkling, First Aid scooped up another handful of fresh snow and let it fall like a shower. Starscream reached his tiny, grabby hands up toward the dancing snowflakes with an elated gurgle. 


	8. Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, my bad. PnP n ANGST.
> 
> I have no idea where this came from.

They would surely blame the Energex later for their current predicament. Once they were asked about it anyway. Flustered, Tailgate would try to change the topic. Cyclonus would glare balefully at whoever brought the topic up, just like he did when became public that he and Tailgate shared such closeness.

Whirl on the other hand… No one was quite sure how he would react, least of all Cyclonus and Tailgate. The helicopter was a wildcard on good days and a raging psychopath on bad ones.

But that didn’t matter. Not here, not now. They had slowly grown affection for the quirky Empurata amputee that seemed to cause more harm than good. It was why the couple had, in their inebriated state, guided Whirl back to their hab-suite.

“And then – get this! – he didn’t even _have_ his stabilizers calibrated!” Whirl ironically said as he walked in the room at a thirty degree angle. He made a b-line for the lone chair in the room, but a firm shove from Cyclonus had him flailing away. Landing on the berth with a laugh, he fell back and continued. “So first step out the door— _WHAM!_ Idiot fell flat on his afterburners.”

“He didn’t wait?” Tailgate said with a hiccup, climbing up onto the berth at the same time as Cyclonus. “But why…” He hummed in thought and ran an absent hand up Whirl’s thigh. “I mean. Why wouldn’t you get calibrated?”

“Beats me.” A heavy rushed of air whooshed out of Whirl’s vents, a sigh of content. Wriggles and jiggles brushed the three mech’s armor plates together in enticing ways as the drunken helicopter stretched out. “You aren’t going to snuff me in my recharge, are you?”

Still seated on the edge of the berth, Cyclonus let his optics travel down Whirl’s sprawled frame. The spindly design held a certain flair to it not like most blocky frames. He didn’t expect to become so heated at the idea of making the annoying idiot quiver in something entirely different from fear or pain.

“Be quiet,” Cyclonus murmured, swooping down and nipping Whirl’s shoulder lightly. A jolt went through the reclined mech’s frame. “Unless you want us to change our minds.”

Tailgate wedged his fingers between the first available seam on Whirl’s hips and caressed the wires affectionately. “’e’s got lousy pillowtalk,” he slurred, moving up to press his frame against Whirl’s side. “But Cy’s good at…um…” Warmth radiated from Tailgate’s facemask. He pressed himself closer when Whirl arched up from the stimulation. “…other stuff.”

Their differences showed; hard, rough contact left stinging tingles wherever Cyclonus touched while ticklish flutters ghosted after Tailgate’s soft exvents. It left Whirl looking back and forth between them at a loss for what to do. “W-What are you…”

He gasped, pressing a foot on the berth and arching hard. Cyclonus’ clawed digit dug into his auxiliary interface cover seam at the same time Tailgate started fondling his shoulder vents. An audible pop and spooling of cable fell right in front of Whirl’s optic—Tailgate was nearly straddling him by this point, giving him a clear view of the recently-upgraded interface connections at the smaller mech’s belly. They were so new that they almost _gleamed_.

A large hand blocked his view momentarily, but the quick zap of energy and soft keen from Tailgate painted a picture that even a blind mech would be able to see. They were—he was—was he? Energon swirled faster through Whirl’s lines. He looked over in time to see Cyclonus expose his own equipment nonchalantly. Prickles of unease gathered at the back of Whirl’s spinal struts. Why were they…

“Together,” Cyclonus groaned, a cable held in each hand. When did he get Whirl’s cable? The blue mech pushed himself onto an elbow unsteadily to protest.

Tailgate’s mask bumped against his prosthetic helm in as close to a kiss as either could give. “’s alright. It’ll feel great.”

“Wait,” Whirl rasped breathlessly, too late. The empty ports accepted the cables readily; Tailgate’s hardwire connection snuggling firmly into Whirl’s port while Cyclonus’ port swallowed Whirl’s connecter with a sharp sting.

A surge of excited energy whipped through the connection strong enough to collapse them onto the berth. Cyclonus groaned, Tailgate moaned, and Whirl keened as the shared energy coursed through the connection. It felt delicious, wonderful even. A hard push from someone had their fans revving hard to keep up with the intense heat buildup.

Cyclonus was mouthing along his shoulder again, interest renewed in the feedback the stimulation caused. Arousal, attraction, even affection made its rounds through the loop. Whirl’s own faint unease even filtered back to himself. Tailgate seemed utterly elated by the sensitive bundle of wires he found at Whirl’s waist. They quickly reduced the helicopter to a quivering, panting mess between them.

It was beautiful. Whirl had not shared a connection like this since his disfigurement. But the celibacy had been by his own choice, not the disgust of others. “St-op,” he rasped, pushing them with blunt edges of his clawed hands. “Stop,” he bit out more forcefully when they were resistant to budge.

The energy flowing between the hardline connection slowed. Trickles of disgruntlement and concern seeped into Whirl’s conscious before he viciously ripped his equipment free. The room spun in a dizzying pattern that reminded him of the many tornados he threw himself into in the midst of battle. The sensation was oddly welcoming.

Tailgate made a soft sound of pain from the berth. Whirl resolutely did not look back.

“Whirl,” Cyclonus snarled. “What are you doing? Where are you—”

The hab-suite’s door slid shut behind Whirl before the pair could pull an answer from him. He put forth great effort to get to his own suite. A flash of purple and white caught in the crack of the door, lost from sight when the locks initialized.

Urgent pounding at the door fell away to the sounds of ticking meters and turning cogs. Alone in his dark room with flashing biolights, Whirl collapsed to his knees. His lone optic cast a dull yellow light at the twisted claws that were his hands. He didn’t need their pity. He didn’t need their handouts.

_He didn’t need to be fixed._


	9. Tailgate/Whirl + grumpy/protective Cyclonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 8~
> 
> Tailgate convinces Whirl to open up a bit months after the previous events.
> 
> Warnings: Feels and JENGA

It was a task that Tailgate had a sincere disadvantage of. That was why he was allowed an "honorary booster" to help. Plus–those pincers?–they were handy. 

A crowd gathered around the two combatants (three if Whirl was counted) currently facing off in the fiercest competition since the game had first been introduced in Swerve's bar. Each move was made with the utmost care. The observers went 'ooh' and 'ahh' as the stakes raised. 

Brainstorm had to reach up high to place his newly-acquired piece. The precarious foundation the players worked around swayed dangerously, eliciting gasps from the nervous onlookers. Move finished, he took a good three steps back to avoid disrupting the stack.

"Over there," Tailgate directed, motioning toward the next most acceptable candidate to be eliminated. He tried to keep his bubbly excitement to a minimum. 

With the Waste Disposal Unit perched firmly on his shoulders, Whirl softly toed around the pillar of wit to their prize. The position seemed easiest for the pair. 

Tailgate had managed to talk Whirl into playing another game with him, like old times. He'd had to beg and plead helplessly, pointing out how he was so short and how the tower was so tall. And he was still so _weak_ after his near-death experience. This one was only the second they'd played in...months, really. So being perched on Whirl's shoulders again had Tailgate blushing like the first time. It didn't help that he felt a faint flutter in his tanks every time Whirl adjusted his grip on his ankles. 

But they did have an actual advantage as a pair. Whirl's pincered hands, usually a nuisance, served to be the perfect tools for this purpose. They gently, oh so delicately in ways unbefitting the jerky bot, slipped around the rectangular selection and secured a firm hold. A shaky breath from Tailgate's heated systems brushed along the back of Whirl's neck and helm, sending a shiver through his frame that made the stack waver once more. 

"Easy..." Brainstorm said softly from the sidelines. 

The enemy's subtle encouragement was unexpectedly nice. Clearing his vocalizer, Tailgate ordered, "Pull it."

With a swift jerk, Whirl slipped free the rectangular slab of metal from the stacked pile of identical pieces. The tower had only a few pieces on the bottom half by this point, so the sudden jerk tested its stability. It barely even moved. It was solid. They were golden. 

Reaching down blindly, Tailgate took the rectangular piece as Whirl lifted it up. The tricky part was stacking the piece on top–it was another reason why their teamwork was so advantageous. Tailgate swallowed nervously and leaned up to place the piece. "Closer," the small bot said, shifting forward on Whirl's shoulders. They were nearly touching the towering stack, but Tailgate still couldn't reach. Leaning up, he set one hand on Whirl's shoulder vents. The vents instinctively flared at the touch. Almost...

Suddenly, Tailgate slipped too far forward on his perch. This was bad! He was going to fall! Flailing wasn't an option, so he frantically plunged his fingers into the top flared slat of Whirl's vents to catch himself. 

A strangled rev wasn't smothered fast enough to stop the reaction. Whirl backpedaled, vents hitching then wheezing hard at the unexpected caress. The air current pushed the tower to a precarious tilt.   

Tailgate squeaked, falling forward with the game piece in hand. His move threw off their combined balance and sent them crashing to the floor. The tower followed soon after, shaken by the rough landing. 

Groaning, Tailgate sloughed off a layer of rectangular metal pieces that rained down on them and looked around. The gathered crowd had broken out into fits of laughter at their spectacular failure. Swerve helped Tailgate up and gave him a good pat on the back. A few others congratulated him on a good effort. 

The tips of Tailgate's fingers tingled. He hadn't really meant to...touch Whirl like that. Shyly, he glanced over at the helicopter to his side. 

The next pair of "combatants" moved between them and piled the loose pieces of metal for the next round of the game. The minibot shuffled out of the way. He caught sight of Whirl pushing himself to his feet, both ignored by and ignoring the bots around him.

Whirl wasn't happy. 

Silently, the copter migrated to a quieter part of the bar. Tailgate followed at a laggy pace. Whirl seemed oblivious to him...or blatantly ignoring. Was he mad? Standing a few tables away, Tailgate stared at his hands while poking his pointer fingers together. What could he do? He hadn't meant to...well, do _that_. Not really anyway. His cooling fans clicked on faintly in shameful arousal. 

It took time to build up the nerve, but Tailgate managed to find it in him to creep over to Whirl's table. He pulled up a chair far enough to not crowd but close enough to signify that he hoped to talk. 

"Whirl, I'm–" Tailgate tried to say but cut off with a nervous squeak. "I didn't mean..." Whirl was staring resolutely away.

They sat without another exchanged word for several rounds of the noisy game. The occasional clatter of defeat seemed insignificant compared to the deafening silence between them. All the while, Tailgate fretted nervously. He wrung his fingers together, trying to think of something to say to make Whirl feel better. 

"Why?" Whirl asked suddenly, just after Tailgate sent a pleading comm to Cyclonus asking for help. "Why won't you two leave me alone?"

It had taken a lot of convincing for Whirl to even talk to them again after...the events before. He wouldn't even let Cyclonus touch him yet, and it was a struggle for Tailgate just to get a non-invasive shoulder ride. Did he think that Tailgate was too shy to make a move? Tailgate poked his fingers together nervously. Well, he really was too nervous to do something like that...on purpose. It had really been an accident, if an enjoyable one. Shame made his fans pick up faster. 

"We, um..." the Waste Disposal Unit said quietly. "We like you." He continued to poke his fingers together, head down. "We figured out that you're fun and nice once we got to know you. And um..." 

"I don't need friends," Whirl said coldly, still staring away. 

"Well..." Guilt clung heavily at Tailgate's chest. He didn't want to make Whirl upset. 

"It's not about what you need, it's about what you want."

They both looked up in alarm at their sudden visitor. Cyclonus towered above them, arms crossed and mouth set in a grim line. He was angry. Oh so very angry by the way his thinly slitted optics glared a hole in Tailgate. The smaller bot's helm shrunk down in his chassis nervously. "Tailgate. What have I told you." Oh, he was _mad._  

Immediately, Tailgate's gaze snapped back to his fingers. Poke, poke. "To give him space."

The glare only intensified. 

Swallowing thickly, Tailgate continued the mantra. "Whirl will...will..."

"Decide on his own," Cyclonus finished as he glared down at his troublesome partner. "And?"

Tailgate' shoulders slumped. He felt horrible. "...we will respect his decision."

Nodding curtly, Cyclonus gently took Tailgate's hand and pulled him to his feet. The pair made their way toward the exit but stopped at a muffled voice. Tailgate looked back hopefully. 

Whirl still wasn't looking at them. But he did mumble, "...have Ratchet look at that scratch." Cyclonus and Tailgate stared at Whirl silently, confused. He apparently didn't like the weight of their stares because he huffed sarcastically and said louder, "Tails' arm. It got scratched when we fell."

Cyclonus turned Tailgate and looked over the small shoulder, optic ridges raised skeptically. There was a small, thin scratch down the length of his arm that barely cut through his paint layer. Tailgate started fretting, looking over both his arms for the supposedly significant scratch.

The heavy weight on Cyclonus' shoulders lightened slightly in that moment. Whirl refused to look at them, but that didn't stop him from worrying. Perhaps there was still hope after all.


	10. Barblash - OC from SItP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny excerpt for Swallowed Into the Pit. Inspired by magicrobotgeology's request for miserable, suffering babies on Tumblr.
> 
> Barblash is an OC. The name may change in the main story.
> 
> Warnings: Infanticide. Quite squickable

The time of hatching was always a difficult event for Barblash. Thousands upon thousands of tiny, needy little Swarmlings hatched one after another and spilled into a sobbing, panicking pit of confusion and terror. So many hatchlings emerged at once that they had no other way to contain them all, let alone care for them. 

Those that were to survive quickly learned to climb around – and sometimes over – their flailing siblings to reach stockpiles of granulated energon. The energon had to be in a semi-solid state, as they had horrifically learned many clutches before. What was once a feeding tank turned into a drowning pool for those that either fell or were pushed in. The Decepticons called it a regrettable waste of resources. 

It was cruel. The great protector leaned against the half-wall surrounding the hatchery. A few stragglers sat apart from their brethren, hiccuping sobs spilling out of their tired little vocalizers. Wide streaks of fallen tears etched down their faceplates; small, fragile hands reached up blindly in search of anyone able to comfort them, feed them. 

Though his face was set in neutrality, Barblash slowly extended a hand toward one of the smallest hatchlings. The little one was curled up on his side, sucking his digits mournfully. He was so small and weak–the hatchling probably never even had a chance to taste energon. The will to live had left him before he even had a chance. 

There was nothing right about the hive's mechanics. The Broodcarrier had the younger, stronger warriors twisted around his finger so tightly that they ignored the mistreatment of their siblings. Hatchlings so young that their optics hadn't even grown accustomed to sight had to quickly learn to gobble up what precious fuel they could find. Those that could not find food were left to starve.

His hand was nearly touching the tiny hatchling now. Soft pants from sluggish ventilations puffed against his palm. The Swarmling was weak, too weak to be saved by this point. 

But there was no merit in saving this one; there was no use saving one when thousands more perished. Barblash straightened, anguish testing his determination to remain unaffected. There was no point for the old Swarmlord to try anymore. Silently, he exited the hatchery. The haunting cries of the newborns that would not live past their first day followed him even when he could no longer hear them. 


	11. Prowl/Chromedome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut for robotsandramblings on Tumblr. Because this pairing should be a thing. <3
> 
> Warnings: Sticky, light BDSM

The hands dug sharply into his wrists as they held them flat on the berth above his helm. It made him all the more aware how he was to take what he was given; how he had no control in the situation. Chromedome stared up meekly at the mech straddling his chest with quivering thighs. A heated flush traced along the edge of his visor with every thrust that filled his mouth. 

Above him, Prowl watched his reaction with rapt attention. It was always the deep thrusts that made him gag around the girth, but the Praxian had thankfully refrained for the most part. Instead, the mnenosurgeon was forced to gently suckle Prowl's spike under that heated gaze. 

Venting heavily, Chromedome took care to seal his lips around the spike shifting shallowly in and out of his mouth. The added suction made Prowl's doorwings flick rapidly in unadulterated pleasure. It was the only reaction the stern mech would usually make to signify his enjoyment. 

Primus, how Chromedome loved this. His optics slid shut in a moment of bliss as heated release dribbled into his mouth in spurts. Prowl stiffened with a soft groan, venting hard when the orange mech gave one last departing suck before releasing the spike. 

The pair quietly rearranged themselves to lay chest-to-chest. Their heated frames slid together sensually and their legs intertwined in a tangled mess. 

A hand ran along Chromedome's aft enticingly. "And you're sure I can't...?" Prowl asked with a hint of exhaustion in his voice. The slowly built overload seemed to have taken a lot out of the stern mech. 

A dazed, lopsided smile quirked Chromedome's silver-smeared lips. "This is exactly what I want," He said as he nuzzled his helm under Prowl's chin and sighed contentedly. 


	12. Past Chromedome/Rewind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Canon character death.

A dull ache thumped through Chromedome's processor as his systems sluggishly ticked online. His right optic twitched uncomfortably. It took him time to get his bearings but, judging by the slick sheen on his fingertips, perhaps it was best to take things slow. 

The lights were set low in the heated, unfamiliar room that showed signs or recent work stripping it of all personal flair. Chromedome's exhausted optics focused and refocused on the little details; small holes and lighter patches of paint on then walls signified posters and shelves filled with keepsakes, a good sized berth sporting two pillows signified that this room was shared by more than just himself. Chromedome's spark squeezed in half-remembrance of something – someone – he couldn't quite remember clearly. Two boxes by the door signified what he had suspicions of. 

Raising slowly from the desk in the small habsuite, Chromedome walked over to the door and carefully picked up both boxes, balancing one in each arm. He made his way through the familiar-yet-unfamiliar hallways with practiced ease that should have made him wonder. But the mnenosurgeon knew enough about what had previously occupied the empty void in his memory not to question it. The sparkwrenching pain of loss couldn't be removed completely even with his skill. 

So it was with only a small tinge of regret that Chromedome disembarked the ship with a deaf audio to those that tried to hail his attention. Their soft words of comfort and kind encouragement only helped to concrete the truth in what Chromedome didn't want to know.

There were buildings he was unfamiliar with that stretched high into the dark sky. In a small, secluded alleyway the box marked with a red 'X' was left behind. It held memories and reminders of what had been erased, who no longer existed, and why he chose to forget. 

Cradling the unmarked box of belongings taken from the Lost Light, Chromedome followed the rough path scratched on flimsy paper his previous mindset had recorded for him. He studiously kept his optics down so he wouldn't be able to remember where he had been. 

The pitter-patter of raindrops sounded so much like footfall of smaller feet trying to keep up, like a ghost trying not to be forgotten. Self-hatred choked Chromedome's vents as he muted his audios to hide from the eerily familiar sound.

Forgetting wasn't easy even if he no longer could see their faces. 


	13. Drift/Orion Pax = Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've always seen Drift as more of a fun loving guy than someone who wants a solid relationship.
> 
> Warnings: Light reference to mpreg and fussy Ratchet

Drift was a free spirit fueled by the love of Primus to spread the joy that filled his spark with any and every mech that was willing to accept his affections. Current model or ancient, famous or barely known – Drift had no qualms with sharing his love to the majority of the Lost Light. 

The swordsmech had a particular taste for Primes it seemed, be they current or previous. Stories told of how he sported more than enough charm to lure Rodimus into the berth on numerous occasions. Granted, Rodimus Prime was quite the fun loving mech as well. 

But Orion never expected to fall victim to the sleek mech's sultry gaze, let alone having the night of his renewed life doing things that leave him blushing even thinking about. How Drift was able to contort in such a way Orion would never know. 

Smiling fondly at nothing in particular, the ex-Prime remained reclined and dutifully still while Ratchet fussed irritably overhead. Well, not "irritably" per say if his grin was anything to go by. His actions were comparable to how much he fussed over Orion when he'd first come back to life. Ratchet built up the best Cybertronian representation of a mother hen that any of the Earth visiting mechs had witnessed yet.

Though, the medic did take joy in whacking Drift upside the head every time the amorous mech got too bouncy with his giddy energy in the chair scooted right up next to the medical berth. Orion's smile grew a little more – Ratchet hadn't changed enough over the years to leave his old friend behind. For that he was most grateful. 

It was after the fourth softly spoken threat of medically induced mutilation that Orion ignored their playful bickering in favor of focusing on the spark pulsing softly next to his own. He gently adjusted his arms to better support the little frame he cradled in a mummified wrap of warming blankets. All that could be seen poking out of the meager opening at the top were dual pairs of twitching audio horns. Every time a pair of miniature blue optics peeked out from beneath the blanket, Ratchet immediately stopped what he was doing to rush over and bury the little face in the safety of the soft fabric. The two old mechs caught optics and shared a happy, bashful smile.  And here Orion thought he'd be the one to worry too much about his newspark. 

"I got it," Drift said, breaking their shared moment. "His name is Hilt. It's perfect."

Ratchet was far from pleased by what would later be called the Primus Inspired Revelation. "'Hilt'? What makes you think you can name him?" Even in whispers the medic still held his authority. "All you did was-was...donate to Orion! You're lucky I–he let you in here to begin with!"

"Do not worry, old friend," Orion rumbled out in an exhausted baritone. They snapped their attention to him with worry in their optics. "Hilt is a fine name."

Drift fist-pumped in quiet cheer and Ratchet busied himself with cleaning the medbay to hide his sulking. While Drift had not played a key role through the carrying process, Orion thought it best to give the co-creator at least the privilege of naming their creation. A careful finger parted the blankets covering the sparking. The beautiful face that met him sent warm happiness through the weathered spark. 

Orion had never been so proud of himself. He had created life – Hilt was his. 


	14. Orion Pax & Hilt (OC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's some speedwriting about babies. *throws glitter* Writing for this OC is not exactly what I expected it to be. Oh well. The NaNoWriMo beast must be feed.

Hilt was an abnormally empathetic sparkling. They wondered whether it was the constantly scanning sensory horns, who his creators were or some combination thereof that made him able to pick up on how those around him felt. It was hard to fake emotions around him. For that reason he usually had trouble creating a fuss over little things. 

But, one night cycle in particular, Hilt refused cooperate enough to be put to bed. Orion was so very tired as he tried to gently pry tiny fingers from his armor. His medical leave was coming to an end and he needed to prepare himself to plunge back into the participating with the command staff. While he used every spare moment he could to study up on what he had missed during his time offline, Orion felt that he needed to pull an all-nightier to catch up once and for all. Ratchet would be the death of him if he found out. 

That was unless Hilt beat him to the punch.

Sparklings his age were too young to notice the wear and tear that piled up on a mech when he pushed himself too hard, they said. But somehow Orion can see the worry in those big, watery optics of his sparkling not even old enough to speak. The added stress of each miserable wail weighed heavily on the tired carrier as he gently rocked his sparking by the berth. One night. He just needed one night of studying to feel confident in his abilities to live up to their expectations...

Sighing in defeat, Orion laid down on his berth and cuddled with Hilt. The sparkling – sensing his carrier's gradual relaxation – quieted down to hiccups and sniffles. Orion tried to slip out of the berth only once but was quickly coaxed back by tiny whimpers.


	15. Prowl - Pet Mech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For maccadayum on Tumblr who wished to see Prowl "getting dominated."
> 
> Warnings: Quick and dirty writing. Pet play. Post-war society.

A hand curled under Prowl's chin and gave an encouraging scritch for good behavior. Bindings laced Prowl's arms behind his back wrapping from wrist to elbow joint, forcing him to bow his back lest the high-tension ropes chafe alone the edges of his doorwings. He sat with his aft on his heels and knees spread wide just as instructed in spite of the jeers of the other mechs watching the exchange. 

It was beyond debasing being forced in such a position, by Decepticons no less. While the war had ended with both sides coming to a delicate agreement of neutrality, the Decepticons would forever hold a place of disdain and disgust in Prowl's spark. If he had his way the purple smear would all have been wiped clean from the universe. 

But times were hard in the reconstruction process. Much manual labor was needed to cleanup, reforge, and rebuild from the ground up. The Decepticons were better suited for the plentiful manual labor jobs while the more specialized mecha found work harder to come by. 

Autobots filled in what niches and odd jobs they could to keep a steady supply of credits coming in. They tried to support one another as best as they could, but many were too small or too weak to compete with their sturdier once-adversaries. 

Finding work was surprisingly difficult for Prowl. What good was a strategical commander when the only "strategy" needed at the moment was planning the rebuilding of Cybertron? He could not take the job of overseeing from Hoist or Grapple in good conscious, not when they were already competing with the Constructicons. They were also far more qualified than he was. Stepping down when offered the position was the only logical course of action. Yet...

The bound ex-tactician revved his engine irritably when the hand insistently tilted his head up so his face could be inspected. Playing a pet was a degrading job. It just barely ranked over pleasurebot, but only just. The pay was decent given the pricing wars for his time slots. Those credits helped him support the other Autobots still struggling to make ends meet in the new economy. 

Numerous Decepticons leapt at the opportunity to bring Prowl to heel in pay-to-roleplay games. The Masters were tolerant of his icy exterior and blatant disgust to the point that Prowl wondered if it was a sought after feature. 

A thumb traced along his lower lip. It was increasingly difficult not to curl his upper lip back in disdain. This Master loved to take advantage of their mock-familiarity with pats and caresses. Whispered praises of 'Good boy' and 'That's right' could be heard between coaxing commands to present himself better for the observers. 

Just a few more minutes and he'd be free of the mockery for the day. Prowl's icy glare remained locked on the clock hung high on the wall to his left.  

"Look at that sour face," The Master crooned with sickening sweetness. It made his tanks churn. "I know what will make it better."

The Master took the cube of fuel sitting on a side table next to his chair and cracked the seal. Prowl's attention snapped forward in dread. Two fingers dipped inside to swirl the mixture pulled free dripping copious amounts of concentrated energon, between them sandwiched a small crystallized sphere. Prowl turned his head away with a petulant sulk as the treat was presented. 

"Ah, ah, ah," The Master admonished. He placed the cube within arm's reach then used his free hand to guide the back of Prowl's head forward. The treat was offered once more. "Open up."

Optics cast away and head tilted semi-obediently forward, Prowl looked entirely the part of a pet in training. He took his time parting his lips to allow access like any stubborn beast would. The small sphere of fuel pressed slickly between his lips, rolling around on his glossa with the warm charge of liquidized energy. 

Heat radiated pink from Prowl's cheeks as The Master and his observers talked over his head about how well he was 'learning' and how much his doorwings quivered each time he was hand fed. Another treat was pressed to his lips and Prowl had to fight back a snarl when The Master ran a hand along one of his quivering appendages. They were Decepticons touching him, mocking him, making him into an item to be cared for. 

But, at the same time, they were paying him the credits that helped to keep the younger Autobots off the streets. Without their money, some could even starve. So with a heavy spark Prowl curtailed his anger for the time being. Playing a pet was certainly better than other alternatives. 

And if he bit The Master for getting too bold with his touches, it was just a perk of staying "in character."


End file.
